


Connections

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Coping, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Haircuts, Inline with canon, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Shopping, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3932446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Only when the ache of hunger in Ken's stomach eases does he hesitate enough to really look at the other child, to see the tension in the wrists wrapped around folded knees and the dark of shoulder-length hair under the white bandage around their head." There's a comfort to be had in connections, even in the worst of situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Comfort

Ken hates the experiments. He hates the rough texture of the straps at his wrists and ankles, the way they chafe when he struggles and are pulled tighter when he screams. He hates the feel of the needles in his arms, pinpricks that only hurt the worse for sinking in past bruises from previous injections, failures or successes, he’s not even sure anymore. He doesn’t know what they’re doing to him, doesn’t know if he’s one of the “lucky” breakthroughs or the eventual rejects, the ones who disappear without warning and are never seen again. All he knows is that he hates the experiments, that his body aches all the time as if his bones are trying to grow outside the confines of his skin, that he’s always hungry and always hurting and that the only thing worse than the experiments are the nights.

It’s the crush of children that makes it so hard. Ken learned fast that the food isn’t shared out equally, anymore than the pain or the abuse is; it’s dropped off all at once, thrown to the hoard of children to be distributed with far more viciousness than justice. Ken suspects there’s not enough for everyone, that the scarcity contributes to the constant seething panic whenever meals arrive, but he’s never been very good at calculation and at least the experiments are good for something, have left him with sharp teeth and fingernails more like claws than not, a tool to scratch and tear and force his way into as much food as he can make off with to his corner.

It’s not like they all fight. Ken thinks it’s easier when they do, better or at least cleaner to fight with fists and feet and teeth for food. At least he knows where he stands with those children, understands how they think and where he falls in the pecking order. But there are a handful of others, the ones that stay quiet in the fringes of the room, easy to forget until you’re all but on top of them. They don’t eat, usually, don’t sleep and don’t talk and don’t do much of anything but cry. They’re the rejects, usually, after a week or two has passed and they’re too exhausted even to cry any more.

This one, the one Ken almost runs into, isn’t that bad yet. They must be new, or at least new to the crying; their shoulders are slumped in but don’t have the the skeletal thinness that makes Ken skitter backwards with instinctive animal avoidance, and the sound of their tears is still loud enough to be heard over the sound of the scuffle at the front of the room. Ken stares at the other child for a moment, gauging their likely strength and the possibility of getting attacked; then he drops to the floor, close enough to keep an eye on the possible danger but still tucked half-behind the table granting them shared cover.

It’s okay, for a while. He scarfs down the first half of his food, alternating between watching the crowd of other children and this particular one as he chews too-big bites and swallows before he’s quite ready. Only when the ache of hunger in his stomach eases does he hesitate enough to really look at the other child, to see the tension in the wrists wrapped around folded knees and the dark of shoulder-length hair under the white bandage around their head.

“Hey,” Ken says, more out of curiosity than anything else. “Why are you crying?”

He’s not expecting a response. He’s never tried talking to the criers before; no one has, really. They’ve been left to their own devices, in the forgotten corners of the room until one of the experimenters comes to take them away, only sometimes depositing them back in the space. He’s startled, then, when the other’s sobs quiet, stop, when there is a pause and then a head lifting to stare at him. It’s a boy, Ken can see now, the frames of oval glasses set over eyes that have a flatness that unsettles him in some way he can’t define. It’s like the other boy isn’t seeing him at all, is looking through him or past him instead of actually at Ken’s face.

“You blind?” Ken asks, the words sharp in his throat like they’re a threat.

The other boy blinks, shakes his head without speaking. Some of the tension fades from Ken’s shoulders at this proof of responsiveness, at least partially.

“Why don’t you eat?” he tries next. “You’ll starve out here by yourself. Aren’t you hungry?”

A shrug, this time, then: “Not really,” in a weird whispery voice, like the other boy has cried all the emotion out of his throat. Or maybe it’s from the experiments, like the time Ken blacked out on the table and could only growl rough incoherent noise for a week before words came mostly back to him.

“Idiot,” he says now. He still has a roll left, along with some kind of jerky and a single piece of gum he managed to seize when someone closer to the center of the pile kicked it free. He offers the bread, stretching out to hand it over the distance without getting any closer to the other boy. “You hafta eat, don’t you know?”

There’s a pause; then a hand unfolds, reaching out to take the bread. The fingers that brush against his are colder than they should be, like the other boy has been sitting under an air conditioner too long.

“Thanks,” comes that whispery voice again, and when Ken looks the other boy is eating, if without the anxious rapidity that characterizes Ken’s own consumption. He watches for a minute, waits until the roll is half-gone; then he holds out the jerky, too, extends it to the other without speaking at all.

There’s a blink, a pause. “What about you?”

“I ate some already,” Ken declares, reaches out to take the piece of candy still left. “And I got this for me.”

“Gum’s not food,” the other boy says, but he takes the jerky anyway, tugging it from Ken’s hand and eating it between bites of the bread.

Ken waits until the food between them is gone, until he’s sure the tears aren’t going to start up again, before he speaks again. “Don’t you have a name or something?”

“Chikusa Kakimoto,” the other says. He takes the last bite of jerky, looks up to the other boy. His eyes look a little less red with tears, although they’re still not quite focusing on Ken’s face; Ken can see that they’re not black like he thought they were at first, but purple, like a dark bruise or the sky at night.

“I’m Ken,” Ken says.

They both fall quiet again, with nothing else of any importance to say, but Chikusa doesn’t start crying again, and Ken doesn’t think again about the food he gave away, even when his stomach starts growling a few hours later.


	2. Reaching

Chikusa doesn’t really remember what it’s like to feel warm. It’s one of the things he’s lost, since the experiments started, an experience that drifted farther and farther away from his recollection until now he’s not sure such a sensation ever existed at all, if maybe what he remembers as heat is really the feeling of exhaustion, or hunger, or happiness, or any of the dozens of emotions he can only remember at a distance and only by reaching for them. The only one he recalls clearly is sadness, the ache of tears in his throat and burning at his eyes, and even that one is slipping away, now, leaving him quiet and still when they take him back to the room where everyone else is kept most of the time.

He doesn’t know why Ken stays near him. The other boy seems angry most of the time, snaps his words or sometimes just growls incoherent warning that Chikusa can’t quite parse between the constant low hum in his ears and the robotic distance of his body from his mind. But he keeps coming over after the first offer of bread and meat, hands over a portion of his own food and waits until Chikusa is eating it before continuing himself, and Chikusa might not remember what it is to be happy but he imagines it might be like this, a peace so heavy in his limbs that the idea of moving is faintly unpleasant instead of just neutral as so much is, now.

Ken doesn’t leave after they eat, either. The first day they sat in silence for what must have been hours before Ken demanded if Chikusa didn’t sleep any more than he ate, and when Chikusa had shrugged away the answer Ken had pushed him over to lie on the floor, shoved in under his arm like a restless puppy and passed out on Chikusa’s shoulder with no apparent hesitation. The weight of his head was unfamiliar, pushing against Chikusa’s shoulder to keep him still where he lay, but Chikusa hadn’t moved, hadn’t pulled away or pushed Ken aside or done much of anything except lie still and think about the tingling across his shoulder and the way his fingers were going numb from the weight pushing against him. After some time he had shifted, dragged his unfeeling arm out from Ken’s head, but the other had just shifted to lie against his chest instead with some mewling protest and kept on sleeping. By the morning there was a damp spot on Chikusa’s shirt from the other boy’s open-mouthed snoring and a tightness in his chest when the experimenters came to collect him for the day. But that night Ken was back with a pair of rolls to share, and when he pressed them together to sleep Chikusa didn’t pull away.

It becomes habit within the week, routine within a month. Ken brings food back to Chikusa’s corner, his skin sometimes bloody and often bruised from the scuffle for such, they eat in silence, and eventually Ken bears the other boy down for use as a pillow. Chikusa doesn’t mind. He has no food to offer in exchange for Ken’s generosity, and even without quite grasping the significance he can feel something valuable in the continued connection, the weight of the other boy against him at night and the silence of his stomach as he continues to eat Ken’s offerings. Some nights he even sleeps, shuts his eyes and loses time to unconsciousness so the hours pass quickly and leave them both hazy and confused in the morning.

He’s sleeping the night the explosion happens. When he first jolts awake he thinks it’s the door opening, the regular morning interruption of the experimenters coming to collect them, but the room is still dark, Ken still pinning him down and breathing deeply in the hold of sleep. Chikusa lies still for a moment, wondering if it was his imagination; then there’s another sound, louder and closer, and he says “Ken” without thinking.

There’s a whine against his shirt, the other boy’s head turning in so his nose crushes ticklish against Chikusa’s ribs. “Mmgh,” Ken says, and Chikusa speaks again, “Ken!” coming louder and higher this time.

“Huh?” Ken pushes himself upright, this time, squinting at Chikusa in the dark and rubbing against his eyes. “Wha--?”

“Something’s happening,” Chikusa says, and then there’s another explosion, deafeningly loud and right outside the door. Ken shouts, Chikusa flinches back, and then there’s sound and dust and motion, too much for Chikusa to process at first that it’s a wall coming down, the door at the front of the room collapsing in. Everyone’s yelling, screams and shouts from the other half-asleep children, and Ken is on his feet, barking something Chikusa can’t hear.

“Ken,” he says, but his voice is lost to the chaos around them. “Ken!”

He thinks for a minute Ken doesn’t hear him, can see the other boy starting to move towards the door without hesitating. But then he looks back, his eyes wide and black in the nighttime darkness, and then he’s reaching out, grabbing at Chikusa’s shirt and dragging him to his feet.

“C’mon!” he shouts, loud enough for Chikusa to hear the words over the continued sound of panic and explosions both. Then he’s moving, scrambling over tipped-over furniture and other children alike, and Chikusa is flailing after him, tripping over obstacles and panting for breath that won’t come easily until he gets his fingers closed at the back of Ken’s shirt, fists his hand into a grip tight enough to ease the tension in his chest.

Chikusa has no way to know that they are walking towards their saviour, that it’s freedom he’s following Ken towards. In the first flush of reaction salvation doesn’t cross his mind; the idea requires more optimism than he has, requires a grasp of hope he lost so long ago he can no longer remember if it ever existed at all. But he doesn’t need hope to cling to the familiar, to reach out for what has become comfortable if only through exposure.

He might not remember happiness, but the contentment of a companion is worth the effort to hold onto it.


	3. Future

Chikusa leaves Ken to his own devices for almost a half-hour, one of the longest periods Ken can recall without having the other’s monotone “ _Ken_ ” to pull his attention back from whatever trouble he is getting into. It’s fun for the first five minutes, boring for the next ten, and by the time Ken is trying on glasses himself it’s in a deliberate attempt to get Chikusa’s focus back on him instead of on the mirror he’s been peering into for what feels like an eternity. Even then regular levels of chaos prove insufficient; it’s not until Ken actually manages to knock over one of the display stands and scatter glasses across the floor that Chikusa turns to look at him, huffing the other’s name with the faint exasperation that has become as regular a part of Ken’s life as his heartbeat.

“Aren’t you  _done_  yet, Kaki-pi?” Ken demands as soon as he has Chikusa’s attention, turning away from the collapsed display and ignoring the indignant squawks of the attendants. “I’m hungry, I want something to eat.”

“You’re always hungry,” Chikusa says, and he’s looking away again, as if his reflection is somehow more interesting than Ken himself. “We’ll go once I’ve found new frames.”

“You’ve been looking  _forever_ ,” Ken groans, narrowing his eyes at the unfamiliar glasses obscuring the other’s features. “You keep trying on all the stupid ones, anyway.”

“You could help,” Chikusa says levelly, in that tone he sometimes takes that means he’s being sarcastic. “Instead of causing a bigger mess than you usually do.”

Ken growls unintelligible irritation, steps in close quickly enough that Chikusa can’t do more than start to lean away before he’s reaching for the too-dark frames resting against the bridge of the other’s nose. “Not those,” he says, tossing them aside without looking to see where they end up. Chikusa sighs, turns to catch at Ken’s wrist with the fumbling uncertainty of nearsightedness, but Ken shakes him off without any effort and reaches for a pair of frames from the side of the display Chikusa has wholly ignored. They’re easier to grab by the lenses than by the bridge of the frames, as Chikusa has been doing, and then Ken reaches up to shove them onto the other’s face in spite of the way Chikusa tips back in an attempt to avoid the impact.

“There,” he says, and that  _is_  better, Chikusa’s features split up along the lines of the glasses instead of looking bare and naked without them. “Those are perfect.”

“All I can see are your fingerprints,” Chikusa protests, but he’s straightening the frames anyway, turning to look at his reflection with as much precise care as he has given to all the other pairs he has tried on. Ken watches his reaction, far more invested by his own input than he was by all Chikusa’s too-patient attempts, grinning in unconscious pleasure when the other blinks in his minimal tell for surprise.

“These aren’t bad,” he allows, and Ken’s grin turns into a bark of laughter in his throat.

“They’re perfect,” he insists, because they are, the thick rims help shape out the untouched smoothness of Chikusa’s usual expression, the change of silver for black softening the frames into something that looks somehow more mature than the old ones. “C’mon, c’mon, let’s eat, I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry, Ken,” Chikusa repeats, but when he takes the glasses off it’s only to wipe the lenses clean before he puts them back on with a motion that already looks natural.

“Come  _on_ ,” Ken whines, and Chikusa is coming, moving away from the display and towards the register with a determination that soothes the worst of Ken’s impatience even before the other has finished paying for the new frames. It’s not so bad when Chikusa is just handing over money, easy to get his attention as soon as they’re turning to leave.

“You look so grown-up,” Ken teases, grinning like he’s making up for Chikusa’s usual blank gaze. “Maybe I should do something too, huh?”

“You do look like a pet as you are,” Chikusa observes as he pushes his new glasses up the bridge of his nose. Ken growls protest but Chikusa just glances at him without a flicker of emotion across his face before he continues. “A haircut might help.”

“Shut up, Kaki-pi.” Ken glares up at the other, unhindered by Chikusa’s complete lack of reaction. “Your hair is way longer than mine.”

“At least I brush mine,” Chikusa observes. “Yours is enough to be a nest even when you do bother to wash it.”

“It  _hurts_ ,” Ken protests, falling into the rhythm of a well-worn argument. “Isn’t washing it enough?”

“It wouldn’t hurt to brush it if you kept it neater,” Chikusa points out, reaching out to tug at one of the knots at the back of Ken’s head before Ken can reach up to swat his hand away.

They stop fighting long enough to eat, picking up the thread of the argument on the way home as if they had never set it down. The faint amusement under Chikusa’s words is familiar, as much a comfort as the meaningless aggression that purrs under Ken’s skin more like warmth than the aching prickle of true anger.

By the time they’re ducking back into the dim-lit interior of home, Ken has about worked himself around to the suggested haircut in spite of all his protest, though he doesn’t admit it right away. He’ll wait a few days so he can pretend it was his idea, even though Chikusa is going to raise his eyebrows in knowing amusement and he’ll have to growl at him for minutes before the tightness of almost-a-smile will fade from the other’s lips.

It’s kind of nice, to be secure enough in the future to be able to wait for it.


	4. Clean

“Hold still, Ken, I’m almost done.”

Ken whines, twists like he’s trying to look around at Chikusa; luckily Chikusa is expecting exactly this move, which has been performed over a dozen times in the last twenty minutes, and has the scissors well clear of the other’s hair before Ken moves. He reaches out with his other hand, settles his fingers in firmly against the top of Ken’s head, and turns him forcibly to face forward.

“Stop moving or I’ll tie you to the chair,” he threatens. In truth there’s not much need for even a threat; he’s almost done, the cloud of yellow hair coating his hands and Ken’s shoulders proof enough of what he’s done already. But there’s still a few longer pieces at the bottom, against the very back of Ken’s neck, and Chikusa pushes Ken’s head forward so he can snip at them while Ken is still in the middle of putting words to his boredom.

“It  _itches_ ,” he insists, twitching his shoulders as if to demonstrate. “You haven’t even been doing anything, Kaki-pi.”

“I have too.” Chikusa holds Ken’s head forward for another moment so he can ruffle his fingers through the short-cut strands and check for any longer pieces; then he lets him go, pushing at the back of the other’s neck to urge him to his feet. “Done.”

“ _Finally_ ,” and Ken is up immediately, shaking his head and dislodging another cloud of yellow hair as he ruffles a hand through what is left. “Hey, it’s short!”

“I told you I was going to give you a haircut,” Chikusa points out as he moves to wipe the scissors clean and track down a broom to sweep up the mess Ken’s made. “It’s not like it was going to get longer.”

Ken makes a face, twitches his shoulders again. “It itches still.”

“You should wash it,” Chikusa points out, moving to grab at the back of Ken’s shirt before the other can escape. “Leave your shirt here, it’s just covered in hair anyway.”

“You never said anything about washing,” Ken grumbles, but he strips his shirt off anyway, relinquishes the fabric to Chikusa’s waiting hands and shakes his head in an attempt to lose more of the strands before he retreats to the shower. It’s indicative of uncountable past victories on Chikusa’s part, that he goes so easily now; Chikusa likes to think it’s because Ken knows he’ll lose the fight if he stands his ground.

Then again, maybe it’s just an attempt to slide out from under the other’s attention. The water is barely running for a minute before it shuts off, not nearly enough time for Ken to wash his hair clean, much less the rest of him. Chikusa sighs, gets to his feet from where he was sweeping up the strands of cut hair, and he catches Ken wet and dripping just as the other opens the door to emerge from the bathroom.

“Back in,” he demands, shoving at Ken’s shoulder while the other whines, “But I did, look, I’m wet!”

“Water won’t get you clean,” Chikusa insists. “Use  _soap_. And shampoo.” He backs Ken into the shower, pushes the door shut to keep them both inside, and after a moment’s consideration strips off his own clothes and glasses to deposit them in a heap atop Ken’s discarded pants. “Move over.”

It’s a small space for them both to fit, the smaller from the way Ken flinches away from the spray when Chikusa turns the shower on. But this is familiar in its own way, the last resort Chikusa often ends up using when Ken refuses to wash sufficiently on his own, and in spite of his hissing disapproval Ken submits without any physical protest to Chikusa pouring shampoo over his freshly-cut hair and rubbing it up into the suds the other hates so much. Chikusa can’t see all that well without the weight of his glasses on his nose, but it’s easy to hear when Ken resigns himself to his fate, hangs his head and lets the other’s fingers work over his scalp. For several minutes it’s quiet but for the splash of the water, the steam from the heat filling the enclosed space until everything is fogged over into a white haze. Chikusa’s shoulders relax in the warmth, the soft of Ken’s hair against his hands offering simple physical comfort, and Ken has stopped protesting entirely, he’s tipped in with his forehead resting at Chikusa’s collarbone and his breath blowing as warm as the water over the other’s skin. It’s hardly usual; Ken taking a shower at all is an all-too-rare occurrence, and even then Chikusa almost never joins him like this. But it’s pleasant anyway, the warm of the water and the steady pace of Ken’s breathing against Chikusa’s shoulder, the quiet between them absent their usual perpetual argument.

By the time Chikusa reaches to turn the water off, it’s been almost ten minutes of silence. Ken’s hair is clean, plastered wet and clinging to his scalp, all his scarred-over skin clean of its usual layer of grime and dirt. He looks nice, when he lifts his head, the shorter haircut leaving his features clear enough for Chikusa to see the different line of his jaw, the mature angle of his features proof of the years they’ve spent together.

“Come on,” Chikusa says, his voice softer than he can usually manage to make it. “Let’s dry off.”

He dries Ken’s hair for him too, even though the other can usually be trusted with this portion of showering, at least. The haircut has left the yellow locks too short to tangle like they usually do; dried they fluff out around Ken’s head like feathers or the soft of fur, make the wide-eyed intensity of his stare more endearing than intimidating. Ken makes a face at himself in the mirror, twists his features like he’s verifying it’s really himself, but when he pushes a hand through his hair it’s a smile that he settles on, his mouth twisting up into the grin Chikusa knows better than the shape of his own face.

“You didn’t do too bad, Kaki-pi.” Ken glances over his shoulder, his grin pulling wider as he catches Chikusa watching him. Chikusa knows that smile, knows what’s coming next, and he doesn’t move away as Ken’s hand comes out to curl against the back of his neck, ducks his head in submission to the other’s pull urging him downward. Ken’s mouth is warm against his, his lips still damp from the steam of the shower and his skin radiant like he has sunlight in place of human blood. It feels nice, pleasant sensation tingling out into Chikusa’s hands like they’re coming back from being numb, and when Ken opens his mouth to lick against Chikusa’s lips Chikusa shuts his eyes and lets himself go compliant to the other’s unspoken urging.

Chikusa’s not always clear on the boundaries of pleasure, the distinction between what he active likes and what simply isn’t worth resisting. And Ken is a pain, tiring to be around and generally more filthy than otherwise, prone to sleeping on the floor instead of in a bed and unable to amuse himself for more than five minutes before he needs attention.

The fact that Chikusa is still with him after all this time is, in the end, the best certainty he can muster for the feelings he lacks a frame for.


End file.
